Victors Past
by Riddl3MeThis
Summary: Winning definitely isn't everything. And no one knows that more than the Victors of the Hunger Games. A one-shot for every victor ever mentioned in the series, and possibly some that weren't. Updated daily  hopefully!
1. Chapter 1

**This was an idea I had a very long time ago, to do one shots about all of the Hunger Games Victors we've learned of, that I finally got around to doing. The one shots will all be done in different styles (ex: out of the four others I currently have saved, one is a letter, one is an interview, and one is mostly a morphling trip). This one is kind of a disjointed summary of Brutus's life. Enjoy! Or don't, and let me know why! Also, if you could give me your favorite Victor and a prompt, that would be marvelous :) I have ones set for about half right now, but I keep thinking of more Victors that were mentioned, so any prompting is more than welcome!**

Brutus Klassen

Purpose. 

The only time that Brutus ever truly understood why he was alive was during the Hunger Games.

Things were simple there. No worrying about training, or his family, or the baby. Just worrying about one thing and one thing only: killing everyone.

But too soon the final trumpets had sounded, and he'd been sucked up into a hovercraft and sent back to a life full of nothing. Just a family that was only now starting to care about him and a wife that he didn't even like that much. But he'd never leave Vala, no matter how much he loathed her, because she had the one thing that could help him become whole again in her stomach.

Alias.

His son. And he'd be damned if he left the child a bastard.

So Brutus stayed, and put up with Vala's incessant whining from sunrise to sundown until Alias was born.

But it didn't help. Not like he'd hoped it would, anyway.

Taking care of Alias wasn't really a purpose. It was just something he had to do. And Brutus failed to see any of himself in this little lump of a child that so resembled his younger, better looking, and _blonde_ brother.

The child's hair color definitely hadn't been the first sign of unfaithfulness in their marriage, but it was the last straw, and eventually he ended it with Vala. Kicked her out without so much as a slice of bread and gave Alias to the young couple who lived next door.

That way he could remain somewhat present, but no longer responsible for the child that wasn't even his.

The couple was nice, but naive. The woman, Lyme, was coming off of a Hunger-Games-winning-high that Brutus himself knew well.

He decided not to warn her that it would fade before the end of the year.

The man, Sikes, was a bit more difficult to read. He was a skinny, sickly looking man who looked positively childish when he stood next to Lyme. As if his appearance wasn't bad enough, Sikes hardly ever talked. Brutus was the one who never talked. That was his thing, and he was physically imposing enough to get away with it.

Sikes wasn't.

Brutus never got the chance to figure him out, though, because Sikes was dead by the time Lyme finished mentoring her first pair of tributes.

You pick up on things when you don't talk, and Brutus was able to pick up on more than Lyme thought. He knew why Sikes had been killed, and though it disgusted him there was nothing he could do about it. So he tried to forget it.

From then on, he saw much less of Lyme and even less of Alias. So he put all of his effort into training future tributes, hoping it would give him some sort of purpose.

And it did, for a while. Until the Hunger Games rolled around again and both kids from District 2 were killed by that sniveling, axe-wielding fiend of a girl from District 7.

So Brutus remained lost for some time again, staying quiet, talking to no one except for Alias on his occasional visits, but even those conversations were stilted and awkward and full of calm pleasantries with deep anger hidden beneath them.

Had he actually paid a fraction of attention to his not-son, he may have figured out his plans beforehand.

But Brutus paid attention to no one, and therefore it came as a complete shock when Alias volunteered at the Reaping Ceremony the following year.

Brutus' first instinct had been to kill Lyme, but that would have just left Alias at a disadvantage with one mentor, so he bided his time.

His last few weeks with Alias were not as they should have been. They should have been filled with hugs and meaningful conversations and encouragement. Instead they were filled with so much yelling and training and strategy that by the end of the week the look of hatred shone in Alias's eyes every time he looked at either of his mentors.

The only thing that made it bearable was that Brutus knew he could apologize after Alias won.

But he didn't.

That pathetic mess of a girl from District 4 who had Finnick Odair practically hyperventilating in the control room did.

And then there was no point again, for a long, long time.

Lyme quit being a mentor and refused to go the Capitol, no matter how much they threatened her.

So Brutus left her alone and mentored with and Hanel, and old victor who understood what the Games could do for a person. Together, they mentored a female tribute into winning the seventy first Games.

It wasnt enough.

But that's how he got by for four years, mentoring and watching death and training and watching death until an announcement for the Quarter Quell came onto his tv, unbidden and unwanted.

Brutus went upstairs before he could hear what new and exciting way the Capitol had designed to kill tributes this year, because honestly, he didn't care.

He was allowed exactly ten minutes of peace before the knock came on his door.

"Hello, Brutus," Lyme said, uttering her first words to him since a broad sword on a child's neck had irrevocably severed their already minimal communication. "Did you catch the Quarter Quell announcement?"

Though tempted as he was at the words 'Quarter Quell' to slam the door in her face, Brutus allowed her enough time to explain.

When she was done, he nodded and allowed her in. Because purpose always overrules old disputes in Brutus's book.

_Actually,_

he mused quite some time later as the hilt of his kife slammed into the one-armed drunkards side, leaving his back completely open to an attack he had been positive wouldn't come from the blonde-haired, blue-eyed baker,

_purpose overrules every thing._


	2. Chapter 2

**Delia Frakus (the morphling from 6 who sacrificed herself for Peeta)**

**Color.**

She was tired, but didn't want to close her eyes. They were itchy and puffy and drooping, but she needed to keep them open so she could see, so she could focus on what she was doing. Which was currently filling up a needle with the clear solvent she knew well.

Morphling was and had been Delia's closest friend for the past seventeen years, since that fateful first drop into her blood stream took away all of the bad memories and numbed the pain in her abused body long enough for the Capitol doctors to make her look presentable again.

She eyed her skinny arms, searching for a vein. The bright blue was easy to spot against the translucently pale skin, and soon enough the morphling was entering her bloodstream, bringing forth a sigh of release from her lips as the world melted away.

Colors began to show up, first, as they always did.

The gorgeous midnight blue that matched the sky at exactly 11:06 at night (Delia watched the sky every night to make sure). Followed by a sparkly gold that shimmered across the walls. Then the bright red of her little sister's hair, and the wonderful thing was that it didn't even hurt to think about Karli when she had her morphling in her. Didn't hurt to thinkk about the blood that day, that day, mixing with the lighter red of Karli's hair and the screaming and crying and the sad look on her mother's face that would never fully go away and and and

This was turning into a bad trip.

Bad morphling trips were terrifying. Well, not really terrifying per se, but very frightening. On a good trip, you'd think about all the good things and feel calm, but on a bad trip you'd think about all the bad things but still feel calm. No emotion would get through at all.

So you could think of the first time you killed someone (or the last time) and feel no remorse whatsoever. Or sorrow or anger or grief or apologetic or anything else other than calm.

And that was what frightened Delia. The incapability to feel. The thought that with every bad trip she took, the less human she was becoming.

It was obvious in her appearance, already. Her once vibrant red hair leeched of all color, leaving it as the limp pale-blonde, almost white color that was now joining the red and gold and blue to dance on the wall. Eyes never opening fully, afraid of what they might see if they viewed the world in full. Gaunt face, pale complexion, almost-emaciated looking body frame.

Like an animal. No other way to get around it.

Giggling, Delia rolled onto her side and practiced growling. But the sound that came out of her throat wasn't so much a growl as it was a rasping groan, which brought up the memory of a certain cat-like type of mutt that she had faced one time to many in That Month.

The appearance of the mutt hit her like a high-speed train, and Delia inhaled sharply as she remembered the claws soaked with blood, and the whiskers quivering against her cheek as it leaned in to bight her, and the bright, unforgettable green of its eyes...but she feels nothing.

Not the chill she's become accustomed to whenever thoughts associated with That Month managed to creep into her mind. Just a sudden desire to paint a picture of the mutt and a trill of dull excitement as the luminescent green starts to dance before her with the other colors.

Delia wanted to touch the colors so badly, wanted to dance along with them. She decided a while ago that when she dies she is going to come back as the color purple. Not a light, carefree lavender, but a deep, royal mauve.

That way she can be everywhere and nowhere all at once.

**Sooo did you like it? Let me know what you thought! Sorry for the odd, disjointed and jumpy style, but she is supposed to be an addict on a trip. So this one shot's meant to be a bit loopy. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Johanna Mason.**

Deceit.

The girl on screen is crying. Her face is buried in her hands as she sniffles and sobs and bemoans her current situation to Caesar Flickerman and all of Panem.

"It's just...not fair!" she wails, lifting her face long enough for everyone to see that she's cried off most of her makeup. That, paired with her skinny frame and the fact that she's throwing a temper tantrum would lead one to conclude that she's around twelve, maybe thirteen years old. Seventeen seems an impossible stretch.

"It's just, everybody is just so...so strong. And so much bigger than me! I mean, I bet I would've gotten a higher score in training if I'd used th-the lighter weapons," a new wave of tears fills her eyes and Caesar hurries his response to evade another round of sobbing.

"Of course, of course, dear," he puts his hand comfortingly for a second and the girl stiffens. "I'm sure they'll have some nice, small knives for you to handle. Oh! Or how about spears? Spears are always light, otherwise you wouldn't be able to throw them very far!"

"I...I didn't train at the spear station!" and with that, the girl lapses into another uncontrolable fit of sobbing that lasts well past the buzzer signaling that her time was up went off.

_Click._

The image on the screen pauses on a closeup of the next tribute's faces as Milo stands to adress us all. I gulp and look over at Kylaia, who shoots me a knowing look.

What's coming next can't be good.

"So," Milo's voice is an angry hiss, "Would you like to tell me how that," he gestures at the screen, went to this?"

_Click._This tape is still one of the same girl, but she's remarkably different. Instead of the perfectly straight posture she had in her first video, this time she's lazily draped herself across the chair, with her legs hanging over the armrest. Her eyes are free of tears, and her mouth has taken the shape of a confident smirk. Though she's still short and skinny, she looks like anything but a child. Her dark hair has been cut in choppy, chic layers, the shortest of which falls perfectly over one eye. Her makeup is dark and smoky, making her look both frightening and alluring. And her body is killer. The muscles in her arms were hidden by sleeves up until her very first kill in the Games, but the sleeveless dress she's wearing displays them prominently.

Currently, Caesar is asking her about the tribute she strangled from 8 when she couldn't find her trusted axes.

"Well, Caesar, darling, I saw an opportunity and I decided to seize it. But that poor girls neck got in the way."

The audience laughs at this and she gives the camera a little wink that sends them into a frenzy.

"Yes, but why?" Caesar asks, after allowing the audience a proportional amount of time to scream at her, "Why with your hands, I mean. Your axes were only a little bit away. The girl was making camp there, so she should've stayed there all night. What made you decide that you had to kill her right at that moment?"

"Well," the girl begins slowly, "The tributes from 2 and 4 were nearby,"

She pauses, so Caesar prompts her with a "Yes?"

"And I knew that they'd be hunting, because, you see, it was night at that point."

Another long pause.

"I guess I just didn't want them to get to her first."

Caesar leans in, "Because you wanted her on your kills list?"

"No," there's no pause this time, "Because I just wanted to kill her. I wanted to see the look in her eyes when she realized this was going to be her last moment alive." The smirk grows wider on her face, "And it would be kinda hard to do that if I chopped her head off first."

_Click._We're all silent as we watch Milo make his way slowly to the head of the table. "Now," he says softly, " would someone please tell me what imbecile forgot to check up on whether or not the first interview was part of her strategy?" He's shouting by the end.

"Sir," Marielle says timidly, "We did check with her mentors; they honestly didn't know her plan-"

Milo cuts her off, "Well, why wasn't someone anticipating that? We had almost no footage of her broadcasted for the first five or so days! Didn't someone think that the people would be a bit confused if she won and absolutely no one remembered she was there to begin with?"

"In all fairness, sir," Marielle begins, but Milo doesn't let her get any further than that.

"In all fairness, I have President Snow calling me, now! He calls twice this morning and _demanded_ to know who was to blame for this atrocity. So I wanna know, too. Who should I tell him screwed up?"

We're all silent. We all realize what selling out someone to Snow could mean, and we're not going to inflict that on one another by choice. After staring us all down for a while, Milo sighs in disgust and turns to leave. I'm not sure what makes the words come out of my mouth (other than temporary insanity) but come they do.

"Maybe no one's to blame. Maybe Johanna Mason's just smarter than we gave her credit for." 


	4. Chapter 4

**So. These next three chapters are actually from my Mentors story. I realized it was vaguely stupid having two fics that were basically about the same thing, so I decided to combine them. Ta-daaaa.**

* * *

**Haymitch Abernathy**

**Blame**

"I hope you're happy,"

She sounds stupid when she says it, slightly like a petulant little kid (which at her age is no easy feat).

"Sweetheart, you've known me long enough to know that nothing's ever gonna make me happy."

Mags sighs and puts a hand to her wrinkled face. "You didn't have to drink all of the wine. You could've saved it for later in the week..."

"Why save something you can easily get more of?" he points out, but she doesn't answer. Just slowly lowers herself onto the couch next to him.

"Just because they died-"

"Again," he interrupts.

"That doesn't mean it's your fault."

"Then who's fault is it?"

"Haymitch," she begins but he cuts her off again.

"No, seriously, Mags, who the hell else can you possibly blame?" He's mad now. The alcohol tends to do that.

"Oh, I think we could both think of a few people if we put our minds to it," she says.

He's not so drunk yet that he can't figure out who she means, but it does take him a bit of time to come up with the name. "Snow," he whispers so softly that she doesn't even hear him.

"Well, fault aside," she says after a moment of silence, "perhaps it's better for them this way. They don't have to deal with...all the unpleasantness that comes with being a Victor. Haymitch knows she's thinking of Finnick Odair, her fellow mentor who's 16th birthday passed little more than a week ago.

"Yeah," he agrees, "consequences." But he's thinking of others; of a toddler's toothless grin, of a mother's happy smile, and of a teenager's silky black hair, tinged red with blood.

Silence. Then

"Take care, Haymitch," she says and gets slowly to her feet.

He offers her the inch or so of ruby liquid sloshing around in his last bottle, but she declines.

"Sweetie, if I had a sip of alcohol right at this second I'd probably go into cardiac arrest."

Though it's a very real possibility, he laughs anyway.

"Nice talking with ya, Maggy-Pie."


End file.
